Stirred from their slumber by the crackling bolt of Lorkhan, these ashes are saturated with the remains of those behemoths who resided here before the coming of the Dragons and the lighting of the Dawn. Here the fell winds of morrow bellows out from the flamefrosted ravines of Balúr the red mountain, carrying with them eternal and memorious ashes which roil from within. In this land, they take on new shapes, becoming great black titans and hellions, ravaging the landscape, and bringing constant horror crashing down upon the scarce settlements that barely cling to the damned canyons and mesas. In Niben, the winds limit themselves to commonplace tricks - harassing the unfaithful and confusing travelers - but eastward, beyond the mountains of Cheydenne, the winds begin to change.
